


At the Door

by oh_johnny



Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 07:49:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4213800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_johnny/pseuds/oh_johnny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little schmoop, a little angst, a little sex, and one itsy little scene that would have included Paul's father if I hadn't completely choked at the thought of writing him.</p>
<p>And a really good first line, terribly abused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the Door

**Author's Note:**

> I am in the process of archiving what I consider to be the best of my work originally posted on lj at johnheartpaul. This is not new work, unless you haven't seen it over there.

John stood at Paul's door, bedraggled from the storm he'd walked through to get here, rain streaming down his face, raincoat left behind in his haste, just standing, waiting to be allowed in. There were lights on inside, he could see them, but repeated knocking and calling had brought no response and now he didn't know what to do, so he stood. 

He'd fucked up. He knew that. He'd known it the second the words had left his mouth, hadn't needed the sudden hush in the studio to tell him he'd really gone too far this time, hadn't needed the look in Paul's eyes, hadn't needed the sight of Paul's retreating back as he left, hadn't needed the look in George's and Ringo's eyes. He'd known what those words would do to Paul and he'd said them anyway. Had been unable to stop himself, they were just burning at the tip of his tongue and he'd let them loose, put them into the universe and let them reverberate.

"It's like working with Frankie fucking Avalon. All pretty hair and pretty eyes and no fucking soul. If it wasn't for me you'd have no fucking career and you know it. Pretty isn't good enough, Paul, and if you can't fucking cut it then get the fuck out."

He knew that was Paul's sore spot, which is why he'd gone straight for it. Paul was tired of being the pretty one, the cute one, the one who could be relied on to say the right thing. He was chafing against the Beatles cage, a cage John and George had been trying to open for months now. What was worse, though, was that Paul wasn't sure he could make it without the Beatles, wasn't sure he really had what it took - not that he'd ever admit that to anyone but John. 

John knew that Paul was a lot more than pretty. He knew that Paul had all kinds of talent. It was why he'd asked him to join the group in the first place. Well, that _and_ the pretty. Well, beautiful, really. Paul was beautiful, not pretty or cute, and John wasn't quite sure why the screaming girls didn't get that. Mind you, the screaming girls hadn't had the opportunities he'd had to examine Paul's beauty up close.

But what the hell good was the knowledge of what Paul looked like splayed out beneath him if it didn't get him in the front bloody door in the middle of a fucking monsoon?

He banged on the door again, hard.

"C'mon, Paul, you tosser! I know you're fucking in there! Let me in, I'm drowning out here. Paul? Paul! Paul, fuck, I'm sorry. Really. It was a stupid fucking thing to say and I didn't mean a word of it, and, goddamn it Paul, LET ME THE FUCK IN!" he yelled, kicking at the door for emphasis. Then he turned and sat on the front steps, trying to figure out a way to light a very soggy cigarette.

Paul had brought it on himself, really. Course he had. It was Paul who'd insisted that the song had to be his way, Paul who wouldn't listen to George when he wanted to try something new, Paul who'd got mad at John when John couldn't get the fucking harmony just the way he'd wanted it. Fucking control freak, that's all he was. Impossible to bloody work with. Couldn't take even a little constructive criticism.

Well, okay, maybe yelling, "This is all shite!" wasn't exactly constructive, but Paul should know him well enough by now not to take that personally.

He got to his feet again and stood staring at the door. It stared back at him just, he imagined, as Paul would while he waited for an apology. Blank and solid and pretty. Trust Paul to have a front door that looked just like him. He tried one more knock at the door then started investigating the windows. Maybe Paul'd left one open somewhere. He peered in through cracks in curtains, balanced precariously over the garden - he'd get a right bollocksing if he stepped on the roses - looking for some sign of life but there was nothing.

Finally, he gave up and, after giving the door one last kick he turned and headed off down the road. He'd call Paul as soon as he got to a phone, try and say whatever needed to be said to smooth things out, though experience told him that these things were much better done face to face. 

When he got to the corner he turned again to look and there was Paul, stood on his front steps, watching him. He started to run back, calling Paul's name as he went, but Paul just turned away and went into his house, closing the door behind him.

\---------------------------

John stood at Paul's door, anxiously smoothing his hair down and checking to make sure his fly was done up. After three weeks of spending all their time together, playing music and drinking beer and listening to songs on the radio, Paul's father had insisted on meeting this new friend of his. 

Paul opened the door finally, corners of his mouth twitching as he tried not to laugh at the expression on John's face.

"Come on in," he invited, opening the door wide to John.

"Am I all right?" hissed John at him, "I mean, do I look all right?"

"You daft git, it's not like he's going to ask you your intentions. It's just bangers and mash and some pudding."

"I like bangers," said John, nodding his head as if to reassure himself and stepping into the house.

\----------------------------

John stood at Paul's door, glancing up and down the hall to make sure no one was there to see him. Paul opened the door and stood back silently to let him in. He looked like shit, a fact that John couldn't help feeling glad about. He'd have hated it if it'd turned out that Paul had managed a good night's sleep after _that_ , and that he'd been the only one awake all night tossing and turning.

They circled each other warily, Paul reaching for his cigarettes on the dresser as John headed for the chair. He sat down and looked up at Paul, wondering now that he was here what he was going to say and, now that he thought about it, why he'd come in the first place. He could have just let it go, after all, could have claimed drink or weed or something, could have claimed there was no good time to go and see Paul alone, as if he hadn't been there when George had come to get Ringo, telling them Paul wasn't in the mood for food this morning. He could have done any number of things that didn't have him sitting in this chair looking to Paul for some sort of guidance, some way to ease this strain between them. But he hadn't. And now he was lost.

Paul broke the silence first.

"You look like shit, John," he said.

"Me? Have you looked in a mirror today?"

"Yeah. No sleep?"

"No. You?"

"No."

John nodded at Paul's answer, pleased at knowing now they'd both had a restless night.

"So," he said, taking the plunge, "What do we do now?"

Paul looked at him for a minute, then turned his back, sitting on the bed to put on his shoes.

"Dunno," he answered, shrugging, "Not much to do, is there? Just let it go, I guess."

"Yeah," replied John, "Let it go. Yeah. That's the best thing. Never happened."

"Right. Never happened. Besides," Paul snorted a laugh, looking up at John, "who'd believe us anyway?"

John grinned at Paul, relieved that the tension seemed to be broken, now that they'd come to an agreement.

"Yeah," he said, "That'd be one for the papers, though, wouldn't it? John Lennon and Paul McCartney snogging in the hallway?"

"Yeah," laughed Paul, then, after a moment's pause, "Well, not really snogging, though, was it? I mean, it was just one kiss. Not like I got my leg over or anything."

"Hah! You wish!" retorted John, "You'd be lucky, mate, get your hands on the Lennon family jewels."

Paul snorted again, "You forget I've seen the Lennon family jewels, more often than I like to remember. I'll keep my hands to myself, thank you very much."

"Still," said John, standing now, suddenly ravenous and ready for breakfast, "it wasn't what you'd call bad, now, was it?"

Paul turned and smiled at him, "No, it wasn't."

"Well, then, good."

"Yeah. Good."  
\-----------------------------------

John stood at Paul's door, knocking softly, not wanting to attract any attention from passing guests. Paul opened the door wearing only a towel, a look that earned a raised eyebrow from John as he slipped into the room. 

"You're early," said Paul.

"I know," answered John, "I couldn't wait."

Paul smiled at him as John reached out and caressed his cheek. Paul leaned his face into the caress, holding John's eyes with his own.

"We really going to do this, then?" Paul asked.

John took a step towards him and breathed in his scent.

"Oh, yes," he sighed into Paul's ear, "I want you. I want to feel you, taste you. I want to hear the way you sound when you come, when you're splayed out beneath me and every sound you make is just for me."

Paul's breath hitched slightly as John's voice ghosted over his ear and he heard the _intent_ in John's tone. He'd known this was going to be strange and new and different - he'd had no idea it was going to overwhelm his senses from the very beginning, his dick already beginning to twitch.

John folded Paul into a kiss, claiming his mouth, tongue begging entrance which was rapidly granted, tasting Paul as his arms circled Paul's body, feeling the strong muscles move under his hands. He moved Paul back until they were both on the bed, then reached long fingers down to twitch away the towel, revealing Paul's erection. He pulled away from Paul slightly, eyes travelling the full length of Paul's body, then moving up to look in those dark eyes.

"You're beautiful, Paul," he whispered.

Paul reached for him then, pulling him back into the kiss as John's hands started exploring what his eyes had seen, stroking, caressing, teasing, feeling Paul move under him, responding to his touch, swallowing sighs and gentle moans. When his hand moved to touch Paul's erection he pulled back again, watching Paul's reaction. As his fingers circled Paul, Paul's eyes opened to look directly into John's.

"Please," he whispered, as a moan started deep in his throat.

John leaned over Paul's body, tongue tasting skin, teeth scraping over his chest, open wet kisses down his belly, hand sliding over his erection, feeling the weight of it in his palm, thickening, growing as he moved. This time when he looked up at Paul, Paul's eyes were closed, bottom lip caught in his teeth as his head arched back against the bed. 

He lay between Paul's legs, spreading them wide, trailing small lingering kisses over the inside of his thighs. Then, very carefully, he ran his tongue over the tip of Paul's cock, smiling as Paul swore under his breath. He moved slightly, mouth now at the place where Paul's hip met his thigh and started to suck, struck by a need to leave his mark on this man. When he was satisfied that there would indeed be a bruise there come morning, he raised himself up on his arms and brought his face back up to Paul's.

"You're mine," he said.

Paul groaned an agreement and brought his mouth up to John's. The kiss this time was hard, fierce, full of unvoiced emotion and need. John broke it only to move back down Paul's body, to resume his position between Paul's open legs and to take Paul's cock fully into his mouth. He felt Paul's body arch as he did so, Paul's hand tangling in his hair. He applied himself now fully to the task of making Paul come, wanting to hear the sounds spilling forth from that golden throat, wanting to make Paul fall apart completely. His tongue circled and licked, his cheeks hollowed as he sucked, his head bobbing as he took in as much of Paul as he could, one hand on Paul's stomach, the other stroking his balls, his thighs, while his own hips pumped into the bed, his own arousal going unheeded as he tended to Paul.

He heard his name, raised his eyes to see Paul looking at him, eyes glazed over with heat, voice warning him that soon, soon...

He bent once more to his task, one hand gripping the base of Paul's erection, mouth tightening around him, sucking hard until he heard his name again, ripped out of Paul's throat on a long drawn-out moan as his body arched and he emptied into John's mouth. He kept his mouth on Paul for a moment, waiting until he was completely spent, then rolled away. As he did so he became aware of his own body's arousal, his own need for release. Head pillowed on Paul's thigh he pulled down the zipper of his jeans, freeing his erection and, with three quick strokes, cried out his own climax.

He lay there for a moment, waiting for his breath to even out and his heart rate to return to normal, then rolled over again and crawled up Paul's body, pausing to place a gentle kiss on the bruise on Paul's hip. When he finally collapsed on the pillow beside Paul, Paul turned to him and smiled.

"Jesus fuck," Paul breathed.

John grinned, "Yeah."

"We should do that again sometime. I mean, fuck," Paul continued.

"Paulie, you're babbling."

"I know. I'm sorry. But, really, I mean, I've known you for, what, seven years? I had no fucking idea you could do that."

John laughed and pulled Paul into him, settling him on his chest.

"Your turn next time," he said.

Paul leaned up and kissed him.

"Absolutely," he said, then, settling into John's body, murmured, "All this from snogging in the hallway. I'll have to try that more often."

\-----------------------------

John stood at Paul's door, pounding on it, calling Paul's name, determined now that he wouldn't stop until Paul let him in. 

"Paul, goddammit, I fucking saw you, standing there watching me drown in the street! Let me the fuck in, you fucker! Now, Paul. I'm not fucking joking! Let me the fuck in or I'll, I'll..."

The door swung open.

"You'll what?" enquired Paul, icily.

"I'll...fucking drown, that's what. That'll show you, leaving me out here in this. Fuck!"

"Come in," Paul said resignedly, "And try not to drip on the wood. I've just had it stained."

John sighed and entered the house. Clearly, Paul wasn't going to make this easy for him. Shouldn't surprise him, Paul never did try to make it easy for him. Paul, in fact, could be a miserable shit when he was upset. Even the look on his face, all tight, mouth all pursed up as if it had never opened under him, never swallowed him down, never whispered filth in the dark, never pleaded for release, for submission, for _more_. That mouth was Paul's glory and thinking about the things it could do made John desperate to repair the damage he had done.

"I'm sorry," he said, "It was a shitty thing to say and I didn't mean it."

Paul eyed him for a minute, considering.

"Why do you always go for the fucking jugular?" he asked.

"But it's such a pretty jugular," John joked, reaching out a hand to Paul's neck. Paul shifted away from John, refusing the touch.

"Stop that," Paul said, insistent, "Stop making a joke out of everything. You hurt me, John. You tell me you love me in the morning and in the afternoon you use that tongue of yours to fucking gut me, slice me open and leave me bleeding for everyone to see. How is that love?"

John shifted under the weight of Paul's look, feeling the flush crawl up his skin.

"I don't mean to, Paul, you know that. It's just what I do. That's all."

"And I'm supposed to just take it? Every goddamned time?"

"Yes!" shouted John, suddenly, taking Paul by surprise, "Yes, goddamnit! You're supposed to take it. You're supposed to deal with it. Because you _know_ , Paul, you fucking _know_ , what I am, who I am, what I need from you. You, of all people, should take it because you, of all people, know it's not fucking true, none of it is fucking true, it's just me, Paul. It's just me."

He turned away from Paul then, surprising himself with the passion he felt, with the tears he felt welling up in his throat. He heard Paul mutter an oath behind him, then heard footsteps leave the room. When they returned, Paul handed John a towel and a robe.

"Here," he said, "Get those things off before you get sick and make that all my fault too."

John did as he was told, stripping off in Paul's front hall, trying not to drip on the wood floors. Paul sat on the stairs watching him dispassionately.

"I hate you sometimes," Paul said, finally.

"Only sometimes?" John grinned hopefully.

"Only sometimes," Paul agreed, "But when I hate you I really, really fucking hate you."

"Good thing you love me the rest of the time, then."

"Isn't it?" Paul replied, "Come on, come and get warm by the fire. Tea's made."

He got up to head into the sitting room. John stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"Paul, I really am sorry. I'm a prick, we both know that. I don't know how to make it up to you. You can hit me if you want. I don't mind."

Paul stood for a minute, then, shaking his head, pulled back his arm and punched John, hard, in the gut. John doubled over, gasping for breath. Paul turned and walked away.

"You want to hurry up, John, the tea's getting cold."


End file.
